Viola Slaughter, Pioneer Deluxe

Viola's story really began in the late afternoon of that long spring day, for the nineteen years she had already lived need not count. She had been in the saddle at daybreak, helping her father and brothers gather the cattle from their bed grounds and string them out for the day's drive. The Howells were short-handed and the girl's help was needed to drive the herd. Viola was glad of that because it freed her from having to stay by the chuck wagon and help with the camp chores. She rode with effortless grace, never admitting that cowpunching was work, and it really was a pleasure to spend all day on a horse after her father's trail herd reached the southwestern range where spring came early and the ground was covered with weeds and green grass. Amazon Howell, Viola's father, who had been scouting ahead to pick out a suitable bed ground for the cattle and a camping place for the chuck wagon, was again riding in the lead to point the way to the place he had chosen for the approaching night. Ever since the Civil War had robbed him of all he owned, Howell had been a restless adventurer to whom the grass was ever greener over the hill. Followed by his wife, his daughter and two sons, he had already tried his luck in Missouri, Montana, Nevada and Colorado, finding nothing to his liking. Now, in the spring of 1879, he was driving a small herd of cattle to Arizona, hoping great things of that untried range.

On each flank of the herd rode one of his sons. Jim and Stonewall. On the high seat of the chuck wagon, which was driven by the ancient cowpuncher who was the cook, rode Mrs. Howell, sturdy, weary, yet still courageous as she needed to be. Her secret dream, of which she no longer spoke, was to find a place, anywhere at all, in which she could settle down and make a permanent home. Just give her four walls and a roof that didn't leak and she resolved never to get on a wagon again or cook another meal over a camp fire. Pulling down the brim of her big hat to shield her eyes from the sun, now low in the west, Viola kept the drag cattle of the herd in motion by riding back and forth behind them. It seemed a sheer waste of beauty for so charming a girl to Ride alone, with no one to admire the masses of brown curls and the vivid face they surrounded. Startled out of a daydream by the sharp clatter of hoofs. Viola turned her head and looked into the bearded face of a horseman who was coming over the trail she had just left. He was startled too, for this was no place in which a man could reasonably expect to find any girl-let alone such a beauty! Without a word he lifted his broad brimmed hat and rode on. The manners of the day would not permit him to linger in talk with a girl before he had spoken to the menfolks of her family. It was really but a moment that their eyes met, his piercing black ones and hers of soft brown, but it was quite enough for all purposes. As he rode on she took note of his sturdy, broad shouldered figure, so erect in the saddle, and tried to recall his features -which proved impossible since they were hidden beneath a black mustache and beard. Regretfully she thought, "I may never see him again."

He was remembering her perfectly and intended to see her again as early and often as possible. Within half an hour he came riding back with her father.

"Viola," said Amazon Howell in some excitement, "this gentleman is John Slaughter of Texas. We've never met up before but I've heard tell of him many a time. He's trailing a big herd and it's coming along close behind us. He thinks it might be a good idea that we throw our herd in with hissince we're all heading for Arizona."

Viola smiled at the stranger to assure him that she thought it a good idea too. She was wondering if the sight of her had put it into his mind. There was a small mirror tucked away in the chuck wagon and now and then she looked into it. No doubt but she was a mighty pretty girl! After a day or so everyone in the combined Howell and Slaughter outfits knew that a courtship was in progress. They could not help guessing when even the horses were aware that John and Viola rode side by side whenever the trail was wide enough for two abreast. With the two outfits thrown together there were more than enough men to handle the herd and they made short drives, allowing the cattle to graze and grow fat on green grass and weeds.

No one rode near enough to hear what the pair were talking about but Slaughter must have had plenty to say. Already, at forty, he had been a soldier in the Civil War, an Indian fighter, a trail boss who had taken many herds through country infested with both Indians and outlaws. Cattle had made him rich. Even though he was never a braggart he must have been human enough to tell Viola about his exploits for the sheer pleasure of hearing her exclaim, "I think you're wonderful!"

Judging by what came later, Slaughter's proposal followed these traditional lines: "Ladylove, Ladylove, wilt thou be mine? Thou shalt not wash dishes, nor yet feed the swine, But sit upon a cushion and sew a fine seam And dine upon strawberries, sugar and cream."

Viola's soft answer pleased him mightily. Later on he learned that his Ladylove preferred a hard saddle to the softest cushion. As to a fine seam-she intended never to sew one if she could possibly get out of it. The herd was within a day's ride of Tularosa, New Mexico, when Slaughter told Viola's parents that there was a church and preacher in that little cow town and he wanted to marry their daughter there. Amazon had difficulty in concealing how overjoyed he was by the match. With such a famous man for a son-in-law life should be smooth sailing in Arizona, and he might even decide to stay there.

"He's a fine man," Mother Howell told her daughter, "but you mustn't forget that he's forty years old-more than twice your own age."

"What of that?" asked Viola. "You know I never did care a bit for boys." "Beside that," the mother continued, "he's a widower and has two children, a boy and a girl, back in Texas. It isn't easy to bring up step-children."

"John doesn't want me to bring them up." said Viola. "He has them in a good home where they're happy."

Mother Howell said no more, for if her daughter settled down in Arizona perhaps the whole family would stay there too.

Two years earlier, in 1877, Slaughter had been in Arizona when Ed Schieffelin followed a cottontail rabbit to a ledge of silver ore and named the place Tombstone. A rush of prospectors, miners and camp followers quickly started a boom town and the Texas cattleman had foreseen a great demand for meat. He and the Howells arrived in Arizona in late spring and camped where there was good feed, frequently driving small bunches of fat cattle to Tombstone where they brought a high price. Slaughter sent back to Texas for a second herd which was trailed west during the summer. Before winter the Howells and Slaughters settled in the San Pedro Valley, south of Tombstone, where they were neighbors in the western sense-not more than twenty miles apart.

Slaughter built for Viola a house which was for its time and place-the equivalent of mansion. It had two rooms, which made it twice as large as the home of many other pioneers. The outer walls were made of juniper pickets, set into the ground and well chinked with mud. The floor was adobe, smoothly patted down, and the roof was made of juniper poles, covered with earth. As a touch of luxury a stove was shipped to Yuma from San Francisco by boat and was freighted from Yuma by wagon. The bride had no need to bend over a fireplace to tend her pots, kettles and dutch ovens not that she intended doing so. Following John Slaughter everywhere was his negro body-servant, a former slave known as "Old Bat." To him fell the job of cooking, and a Mexican woman did everything else. The Slaughters' first home was luxurious when comparedwith the temporary shelters occupied by the Howells in the past, yet the young wife declined to settle down in it. Her husband's growing interest kept him on the go, buying and selling cattle, and unless she went along she would see him but rarely. Fortunately John felt the same way about it. He had married a healthy, tireless young girl who had been raised in the saddle. Why shouldn't she continue to sit in it if she chose. Old Bat should come with them and make travel and camp life easy for Viola. And whose business was it if they lived in an unusual manner? Not that anyone commented where John Slaughter could hear it. That soft-spoken gentle-man was quick to resent interference.

Only Viola knew the real reason why she was allowed to ride by her husband's side or take her seat in the buckboard when he traveled on wheels. Slaughter firmly believed that a guardian angel watched over him and had already warned him more than once when he was in danger. He felt sure that he would never be killed or even wounded by Indian or outlaw, and was confident that his wife would share that protection if she were by his side. In those troubled days many a man returned to his home to find it a smoldering ruin and his family slain. Mexican bandits and white outlaws ranked with Apaches in making a lonely ranch a danger spot.

"A woman's place is in the home." There the other pioneer women stayed, doing more than their duty and taking things as they came. Viola left home to meet danger halfway. Not knowing her well, the other women believed that Viola's stern husband dragged her along, willy-nilly-the poor little thing! It did not occur to them that she would far rather risk gunfire by night than get up early in the morning and build a fire in a cookstove.

Folks thought that young Mrs. Slaughter would surely be allowed to stay at home if she had children. They changed their minds when Willie and Addie, her stepchildren, came out from Texas for a visit and she took them right along in the buckboard. These youngsters became devoted to their lively young step-mother and she to them. To be sure she sent them off to boarding schools and had them only in summer. She cooked no meals for them, washed no clothes and sewedon no buttons, nevertheless the Slaughter children adored her then and ever after.

Tombstone kept on growing until it became the largest town in Arizona, even exceeding the Old Pueblo-Tucson. Meat continued to be in great demand and when the local supply ran low Slaughter made frequent trips across the border into Mexico to buy cattle, taking with him "dobe dollars," the heavy silver coin which was the only money Mexican rancheros would accept. To travel through the unsettled country was risky at best and doubly so when a man was known to pack large sums on heavily laden mules. Once when Viola had remained at home, she received word that John had been waylaid in the mountains of Sonora and undoubtedly would be killed. Immediately she started out in her buckboard and was miles below the Mexican line when she saw a herd of cattle approaching and learned that her husband had escaped from the rustlers, cattle and all. After that she insisted upon going along.

Up like a rocket and down like a stick. That was the fate of Tombstone. Water, first a trickle and then a flood from what must have been an underground lake, poured into the workings of Tombstone's mines, and beneath it the fabulously rich ore lies to this day. The boom town shrank in size from city to village within a few weeks, leaving stranded the off-scourings of the west, professional bad men who had been drawn there by the hope of easy pickings. Now they turned to the surrounding country, stealing horses, rustling cattle, holding up stages and trains. An outbreak of lawlessness was destroying the lives and property of peaceful settlers who had fought the Indians in earlier years.

There was only one man who had the nerve, character and reputation which would enable him to clean up this turbulent southeastern corner of Arizona. Reluctantly accepting the responsibility of being Sheriff of Cochise Couty. Slaughter undertook to make it a safe place in which to live. At the end of four hard years-during which his guardian angel had never a moment's rest-he could say to any outlaw, "Leave-or be killed!" and the outlaw would depart in haste. The Sheriff never told how many times his famous pearl-handled revolver was obliged to speak before his own un-supported word was enough.

The story of those four years is a thrilling chapter of the southwest, repeatedly told and written. The wife of the Sheriff would never speak of them. "Those years were too bad to talk about," she declared ever after. During them she had unwillingly shared the common lot of pioneer wives; had seen her husband ride away into danger, knowing that she could only wait and pray for his safe return.

In 1891 the Slaughters carried out a cherished plan of moving to the San Bernadino Ranch which they had owned for some time. It was a vast Mexican Grant, its land lying on both sides of the Border, and the sprawling adobe house which they built a few hundred feet north of the International Line looked down upon an immense grassy valley which lay in Mexico. Close to the house, and the reason for choosing that building site, was a number of artesian wells which provided the water to make the place a paradise.

East of the house an arroyo was dammed and the impounded waters made a small lake or swimming pool which was soon surrounded by cottonwoods and weeping willows. Flower beds and rare tropical shrubs made a garden of unusual charm in that semi-arid country. In these surroundings the Slaughters created a life which was a mingling of the best features of southern plantation and Mexican hacienda. Their Mexican neighbors called them Don Juan and La Señora, and Americans soon did likewise.

Thousands of cattle wearing Slaughter's band (Z on right shoulder) grazed on an immense range. His cowboys were seasoned veterans, skilled in handling cattle and fighting off rustlers. A band of Yaqui Indians was encouraged to settle near the ranch headquarters and their men and women afforded a supply of labor. These were known far and wide as "Don Juan's Yaquis," and so are their descendants to the present day.

Old Bat, chief among the servants, had trained a younger negro to take over some of the duties. With an easier life Old Bat later on developed a taste for two luxuries, records for his phonograph, and soda-pop which was bought for him bythe case. He supervised the cooking for the cowboys' mess. A Chinese cook, assisted by four Yaqui maids, prepared the meals for Slaughter's own table, at which from ten to twenty sat down daily. Army Officers, mining engineers, cattlemen, Mexican Generals, American bureaucrats, a large number of men and an occasional woman were entertained at the San Bernardino Ranch. Stray cowboys were equally welcome but they usually chose to eat at the mess with Slaughter's own men. They had heard tales of damask table-linen, silver, china and style. "Too hightoned for me," they declared.

the case. He supervised the cooking for the cowboys' mess. A Chinese cook, assisted by four Yaqui maids, prepared the meals for Slaughter's own table, at which from ten to twenty sat down daily. Army Officers, mining engineers, cattlemen, Mexican Generals, American bureaucrats, a large number of men and an occasional woman were entertained at the San Bernardino Ranch. Stray cowboys were equally welcome but they usually chose to eat at the mess with Slaughter's own men. They had heard tales of damask table-linen, silver, china and style. "Too hightoned for me," they declared.

Married cowmen who visited the San Bernardino Ranch found that their stay-at-home wives were keenly interested in all that went on there. Upon returning home they were expected to describe the house and its furnishings, the household, the food, and what the women folks had on. Everyone knew that John Slaughter was a rich man and his big house and fine furniture were taken for granted. Some of his belonging caused pangs of envy. Just imagine! Ever-flowing artesian wells and water piped right into the house! This at a time when most Arizona ranch women were still pulling water from wells by rope and windlass. No wonder there were plenty of fresh vegetables on the table, seeing there were Yaqui Indians to plant the garden, water it and chop the weeds. Why shouldn't Mrs. Slaughter sit at the head of the table in a white dress covered with ruffles? She hadn't washed or ironed the dress, or cooked the big dinner over a hot stove! A Lily of the Field she was. She toiled not and neither did she spin.

"What kind of a dress did she have on for breakfast?"

That was a question which caused the men the most embarrassment, for an unhappy husband had to admit. "Well, I didn't see Mrs. Slaughter in the morning. They say she never gets up 'til about nine-after the men have all gone off."

"My land! Isn't she the laziest woman in Arizona! I don't see how John Slaughter puts up with her!"

How sorry the women felt for the poor man and it was all wasted sympathy. He expected to find his wife looking fresh and handsome when he came home at night. This being be-ing

before the day of lipstick and rouge, she needed her morning beauty sleep.

Only those who lived on the ranch knew how energetic Viola became after eating her late and leisurely breakfast. With the cattle she had nothing to do, although she had many in a separate brand of her own. All else in the large establishment was left to her management; the vegetable and flower gardens; the laundry; poultry yard; dairy. Her own table and that of the men's mess had to be supplied with food, which in earlier days was freighted by wagons from Bisbee and later on from the new town of Douglas. She was responsible for the inventory and re-stocking of the commisary -really a country store in which all the ranch folk and travellers bought their supplies.

The buying of everything needed for so great a ranch, together with other business errands which she undertook, were the cause of frequent drives of twenty miles to Douglas or forty-two to Bisbee. These trips she loved because they gave her the chance to dash over the roads behind one of the teams of fine horses which she always handled herself. A State Fair or horse auction was her delight, and she could never be dragged away until she had chosen an bought the best horses shown.

Viola kept an eye on the Post Office of which her husband was nominally master, and the one-room school which she established so that young Yaquis, Mexicans and an occasional white child could learn their lessons together. A resident postmistress, Edith Stowe, and a series of school teachers became members of the family. When Amazon Howell died his widow came to live with their daughter. She was a jolly soul in her old age, for Arizona had treated her well. She sat on the soft cushion which had never seen use and kept all the socks darned and things fixed up real nice.

Now and then Viola had the joy of going with her husband when he bought cattle in Arizona or Mexico, riding with him again just like old times, only now she rode astride. Sometimes she and their daughter Addie went off on a little jaunt of their own, for a visit on some other ranch, or a dance. An old cowpuncher, living in a cabin in High Lonesome Canyon, had just finished eating his high lonesome supper when there sounded a clap of thunder and a dash of rain on his window. Next came the clatter of hoofs, and he opened his door.

"May we spend the night here?" asked a woman's voice.

"Why-sure-sure, ma'am," replied the astonished cowboy, "and I kin feed ye, but I haven't got any spare beds."

"That's all right-we have everything we need," said the voice from the darkness. "All we want is to be under a roof while it rains."

He set his lamp in the window and by its light and an occasional flash of lightning helped Old Bat unsaddle two pack horses and throw off the bedrolls.

"I declare if it wasn't Miz Slaughter and Miss Addie!" related the lone cowboy. "In the morning they et some flapjacks and drank some coffee I made fer 'em-and off they went," leaving their host with a yarn which he told all the rest of his days.

It was a good life, generously shared with friends, neighbors and young relatives on both sides of the family. It inevitably came to an end because of that twenty years difference in their ages which had seemed such a trifling matter to John and Viola forty years before. She had the anguish of watching her sturdy, blackhaired lover slowly turn into a feeble, white-crowned old man who puttered in the flower garden while others rode his range, and played with the little Yaqui children who daily came to visit their patron, Don Juan. With the years many sad changes had touched the life of San Bernardino Ranch, and revolutions in Mexico threatened Slaughter's tenure in that part of the Mexican Grant that lay below the Border. In troubled time there was even a possibility of raids upon the Arizona side. Will, the only son, who was to have carried on the ranch, died while still a young man. Addie had married and frequently brought her children for a visit, but her husband was a busy doctor who took no interest in cattle. The tragic death of Apache May, the tiny Indian girl who had been their pet and pleasure. left a lasting sadness.

So changed and shrunken was the life of the ranch that in 1921 there were living in the main house just four people, Don Juan and La Señora, Edith Stowe and Jesse Fisher, a cousin who was ranch foreman and filled as far as possible the place of a son. These four were seated in the living-room one warm evening in May. Several reading lamps were lighted and the shades had not been drawn down over the open windows.

Suddenly Don Juan put down his newspaper and without a word went into the adjoining bedroom, which was dark. There was a sound and murmur as of people moving about outside and Fisher went out to see who was there. "Don't shoot!" The frightened women heard Fisher's warning shout. A gun spoke in reply and they heard him no more.

Quickly they blew out the lamps and Slaughter came into the darkened room, going to the outer door with a double-barrelled shotgun. With great difficulty Viola persuaded him not to go outside, where excited voices clamored in Spanish and a crash told that the commissary door had been broken open. After that there was complete silence and Slaughter went out to find Jesse Fisher lying dead. For the rest of the night the weary old man remained on guard, sitting in a rocking chair with a shotgun across his lap and a rifle leaning against the arm of the chair.

Once more the sixth sense of danger which Slaughter called his guardian angel had protected him and his wife. Obeying that mysterious warning, he had left the lighted room just as the assailants were about to shoot him through an open window. The ringleader of the four renegade Mexicans, who were soon caught, was Manuel Garcia, a young Yaqui who had spent his whole life on the ranch and had nothing but kindness there.

Manuel confessed later that he had listened to tales of a chest full of gold which was supposed to be in Don Juan's room, and planned to shoot him first of all and then loot both house and commissary. When this plan fell through the treacherous Yaqui and his companions ran away. They lacked courage to enter the house while the mighty fighting man still lived.

A few months later, when he was eighty years old, John Slaughter died peacefully in his bed as he had always foretold. For lack of a son the great ranch was sold and Viola's days were spent with lawyers and bankers, the whole estate being left to her. She bought a home in Douglas, and with Edith Stowe as her faithful companion, made an effort to fill days empty of meaning. Housekeeping, formerly a big affair involving freight wagons full of provisions and the killing of beeves, now meant giving orders to two maids and a daily trip a few blocks in her car to buy steaks, and groceries in paper sacks. All so different from way things were in the old days.

Edith Stowe did most of the driving because Viola drove a car as formerly she had ridden horses, at top speed, expecting an automobile to use horse-sense. She once turned over a shining new sedan on the Bisbee Highway, and when she and her companion crawled out uninjured Viola looked at the car, which lay wheels in air, and said scornfully, "I never did think much of it-wouldn't keep to the road."

It was her love of horse-and-buggy days which led her to consent to sit in the saddle once more and lead the parade when the city of Douglas staged its first big rodeo in 1939. Viola wanted Steele Slaughter Woods, a relative, to ride beside her, because he had been a cowboy on the San Bernardino Ranch in the days of its greatness. Once committed to taking part in the rodeo she began to enjoy the prospect since it was to be a fiesta entirely devoted to horses. The floats were to be horsedrawn, and in the saddle would be many cowboys in their usual garb, cowgirls in bright silk shirts and Mexican vaqueros in the gay colors of their country.

Viola borrowed from a museum the side-saddle which she had placed there with many other Slaughter relics, and resurrected a riding costume that had lain in a trunk for years. On the day of the parade she mounted the horse that Steele led to her door with a gaiety she had never expected to feel again. Riding with all her old grace, her form still erect and her curly hair brown, Viola stole the show from the cowgirls who followed her smiling progress through the crowded streets.

When the parade disbanded she said to Steele, "Let's take a ride," and quite sedately they went out to the park and through its paths. Then they turned their horses homeward, but it soon proved to be quite a different ride. Hitherto they had ambled along at a walk, choosing the unpaved back streets. On the way home Viola suddenly spurred her horse into a gallop and Steele, taken by surprise, could only follow at the mad pace she set. By miracle the shod horses kept their footing on pavement slick with oil and polished to a glaze by rubber tires, and the man's heart had climbed almost up to his mouth when the race ended before her own door. Viola knew this was her last ride.